


The Highest Form

by LylaRivers



Series: The One Who Blesses [3]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: M/M, Pats demon this bad boy can fit so much projection in him, Raphael!Crowley, SURPRISE think again, good Omens is Jewish and so am i, you thought i was done projecting onto one (1) demon?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-30
Updated: 2020-01-30
Packaged: 2021-02-27 10:08:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,874
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22475371
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LylaRivers/pseuds/LylaRivers
Summary: It’s the highest form of tzedakah, he thinks. He doesn’t know those that he heals, and they have no way of knowing him. He’s in and out of the room before anyone can thank him. And most importantly, the patients are put on the path towards being healthy and self sufficient again.Crowley goes to hospitals to heal the sick.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: The One Who Blesses [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1612474
Comments: 8
Kudos: 181





	The Highest Form

**Author's Note:**

> Yall thought that one little throwaway line in Sources of Strength was fluffer? Think again! I’m such a sucker for healer!Crowley.
> 
> Thanks to everyone who has commented or left kudos. I do a happy dance for each one <3

Here’s the problem with hospitals: no one  _ really _ wants to be there. 

Crowley pulls up the hospital, the 3rd one in as many days. Everything in his body screams at the thought of yet another building full of misery and suffering. As a demon, he should love it. Should find these visits to be perfect for scoring more souls for Hell. 

He hates it with a passion. But then, he’s not a very good demon. Or a bad demon, as the case may be. 

He’s bad at being a demon. 

He snaps his fingers, and his clothes ripple and change. Gone are the usual skinny jeans and flashy suit jacket- in their place is a set of nondescript, tan scrubs. It’s the standard uniform for Transport. It screams ‘don’t notice me, nothing to see here’. 

It's perfect for blending straight into the background. No one notices him, and no one asks any questions as he rolls into the hospital, and heads up to the Intensive Care Unit. 

The wave of human misery and hopelessness hits him the second the elevator doors open. There’s nothing as overpowering as endless rows of sick humans, surrounded by their worried, anxious loved ones. He can feel it- the agonized, miserable  _ angst _ of the not knowing, the worry and fear of what could be next. 

It only compounds his own personal misery, and he hates it. 

He slips into the otherwise unoccupied room of a man hooked up to a ventilator. Family, friends, even the ever present nurses are gone for this brief moment. He puts a hand on the man’s forehead, reaches for that bright spark that’s never gone away, even with the Fall, and pushes, ever so slightly. The man stirs, smiles, and breathes a little easier. 

It’s not Grace, what he has. It doesn’t feel like Aziraphale, when they’re both a little too sloshed, and the angel can’t quite hold all his Love inside himself. That little spark he reaches for, it’s definitely not demonic, but it’s not Grace, either. He doesn’t know  _ what _ it is, only that Hell has no knowledge of it, and that it helps others. 

But never himself. 

Maybe, it’s something particular to him, to he-who-was-Raphael. He’s never asked Lucifer, if there was some residual spark of the Divine in the other former Archangel. That’s not a conversation you can just  _ have _ , particularly with the Lord of Hell, Satan Himself. 

He moves onto the next patient, the next empty room. 

There’s something about doing this that keeps him coming back, despite the cost to himself. He visits every care floor, heals every patient he can- but it keeps him on his feet, far longer than he usually would stay. It hurts him, in his core, to continuously reach for that bright spark, and the spark gets dimmer over time, harder to reach for. But this unknown help, the sigh of relief that he feels when the loved ones come back, and see the patient breathing easier… 

It’s the highest form of tzedakah, he thinks. He doesn’t know those that he heals, and they have no way of knowing him. He’s in and out of the room before anyone can thank him. And most importantly, the patients are put on the path towards being healthy and self sufficient again. 

Sometimes, he’s just moments too late. The worst feeling in the world- worse than the assorted tortured of Hell, even- is when he’s about to enter a room, and the patient codes. Suddenly, the room is swarming with emergency personnel, and he can’t get in to help. There’s no  _ reason _ for someone in his disguise to be in a room during a code. It’s a limitation of his perfected plan- he’s unnoticeable, but his ability to go where he’s needed most can be somewhat limited. He supposes he should be grateful for the ones that he could help.

He’s never been very good at doing what he’s supposed to do. 

Crowley slips unnoticed through the hospital, and does what he was made for- healing the sick. 

***

The aftermath is always the worst. 

Reaching for that spark, minute after minute, all day, is exhausting. He’s on his feet all day, with nowhere to sit and rest his aching feet and back. Even his mind is exhausted, his spirit run down after the aura of misery and hopelessness takes its toll. 

It hurts. The weight of human suffering  _ hurts _ . His body throbs, and his spirit aches. He wonders, as always, why Her creations are made to suffer. It’s the very question that caused his Fall in the first place, but that doesn’t ever mean he’s gotten an answer. 

As always, when his soul feels bruised, he goes to the bookshop. He can bask in Aziraphale’s light and warmth, the joy of good company coupled with good alcohol. It’s only recently that he’s told Aziraphale the truth- the  _ full _ truth, that is. The pain, the angst, his eternal internal agony. Even better than that, the angel hasn’t changed anything significant about their relationship, besides a new intimacy and closeness that Crowley’s longed for since Eden. 

He parks the car haphazardly in front of A Z Fell and Co Bookshop, and swaggers into the bookshop. The sign in the front proclaims the shop to be closed, but the door opens easily to his touch. 

“I’m so sorry, I don’t know how you got in, but we’re closed,” Aziraphale says from behind a bookshelf. 

“It’s just me, angel,” Crowley says. 

“Oh, my goodness, Crowley! Where have you been, dear?” Aziraphale asks, coming out from behind the shelf, holding a stack of books. 

“The hospital,” Crowley says shortly. 

“Oh, my dear. Were you there for long?”

“All day,” Crowley mutters. 

The books get placed down on a small, side table. Then, Aziraphale comes close and wraps his arms around him. “Was it a bad day?” he asks, words murmured against Crowley’s ear. 

“Three codes in the Intensive Care Unit alone,” Crowley whispers. “And I went to some of the other floors as well.”

Aziraphale presses his forehead against Crowley’s. “Is this the same hospital you were at yesterday?”

“No, of course not. Do you know how many hospitals there are in Soho alone? That’s not even counting any of the other hospitals in the greater London area. I rarely go to the same one in the same year, let alone the same week. I’d hate for the humans to  _ notice _ something.”

“I could come with you,” Aziraphale starts to say, starting in on the same old argument. 

“No, angel. I need to be unnoticed- and two beings that don’t belong is harder to hide than just the one.”

Aziraphale guides the two of them to a sofa in the back room. “I just worry, my dear. You’re going ever so frequently, now, and you always come back with a flare.” He pushes Crowley gently onto the sofa, and then follows him. He gently removes Crowley’s sunglasses, and wraps an arm around his shoulder.

“There’s no one watching me, now. I can do as I like,” Crowley says. “We’re  _ retired _ , angel.”

“Well, yes, dear. I do rather believe that Anthony J Crowley, demon, is retired. But is Crowley, formerly known as Raphael, truly retired?”

Crowley turns to glare at Aziraphale. “They’re one and the same, angel.”

“No, my dear, I really don’t think they are,” Aziraphale says. “Tell me, do you go around taking down cell phone networks, or gluing coins to the sidewalk, or changing plans to freeways, or taking down train lines anymore?”

“The coin thing is funny!” Crowley says defensively. 

“Yes, dear. But do you do those things with any regularity?”

“Well, no. Just the coins. Because it’s funny.”

“Right, of course. Now, I know you’ve been to the hospitals three times this week alone. Tell me, does Anthony J Crowley, demon, author of Original Sin, the Serpent in the Garden, go about healing people in hospitals?”

“Well yes. I do. You know this, Aziraphale. Just because Hell doesn’t know doesn’t mean…”

“Exactly,” Aziraphale cuts him off, triumphant. “Hell doesn’t know. Anthony J Crowley,  _ demon _ , does not heal the sick- not unless there’s some dark ulterior motive behind it. Now, Crowley, formerly known as Raphael, on the other hand…”

“You’re making a false dichotomy, angel. One doesn’t exist without the other.”

“That’s not my point, Crowley. Just because you’re retired as far as Hell is concerned doesn’t mean you’ve fully retired. At least, not as far as She’s concerned.”

Crowley jerks away. “That’s not funny, angel.”

“I didn’t mean it to be.”

“Then why would you say it? We both know that She abandoned me millenia ago. It was accompanied by a swift boot out of Heaven and burning wings.”

“Is that really true, my dear? We’ve long ago established that Her ways are ineffable,” Aziraphale says mildly. 

“Yeah, good, sure, ineffable. That doesn’t stop the horror of taking a several thousand foot dive out of Heaven for asking some bloody questions. Face it, angel. She’s not as benevolent as you’d like to think.”

“I didn’t say benevolent, Crowley. You said that. I said ineffable- which goes beyond benevolent.”

“That’s a cop out.” 

“Demons don’t heal, my dear. I’ve never heard of one who could, quite frankly. None of them have even the inclination to heal, even. So I ask again- is it really so incredible to consider that it might be down to you, Crowley-who-was-Raphael, and not you, an otherwise non-descript demon who was a rank and file angel before the Fall?” 

“Look, can we… just not do this now, angel?” Crowley asks. 

“My point is, my dear, that I worry about you. You’re retired, so you’re spending more time at the hospitals, and it’s always so  _ difficult  _ for you. You’re as bright as the stars you once created, Crowley, and I don’t want to see you burn out,” Aziraphale says softly. 

“Oh, angel. That won’t happen,” Crowley says. “Not so long as I have you.”

“Me?” Aziraphale asks, clearly flustered. 

“Yes, of course you. You’re so…” Crowley flounders, trying to come up with the word. “So  _ good _ . So bright. Even if everything is awful, you shine.”

“Crowley…” 

“Even if things are awful, you make it better,” Crowley finishes, feeling absurdly soft and mushy. 

Aziraphale takes a hold of his chin, and studies his face. “I love you, my dear.” 

“I love you too, angel,” Crowley says. He bumps their noses together gently. 

“You know, you really are a very nice…”

“No, nope, shuddup,” Crowley says quickly. “Just because I’m suddenly getting all mushy does not give you license to insult me like that.”

Aziraphale raises an eyebrow. “So I can tell you that I love you, but I can’t say that you’re a nice person?” 

“Exactly. No four letter words.”

“Love  _ is _ a four letter word, dear,” Aziraphale says. 

“Yeah, but it’s not being applied directly to me as an adjective,” Crowley objects, knowing that it’s a losing battle. The angel will poke fun at him regardless of how he tries to defend himself here. 

“Yes, dear, of course my dear, whatever you say dear,” Aziraphale says placatingly. 

“You’re such a bastard,” Crowley says, but fondly. 

“But one worth knowing.”

“Definitely one worth knowing,” Crowley agrees.


End file.
